


With a Single Word in Mind

by ASeasonOfPoison



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASeasonOfPoison/pseuds/ASeasonOfPoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One word prompts sent to me on tumblr, and then spun into short drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crying

He stared out at the waves before him, as grey as his eyes, though darker than the sky above the two of them. The sea was rough, a storm was rolling in. The clouds were both beautiful and chaotic, soft and harsh. He closed his eyes as the wind rolled against him, as he stood on sacred ground. He was far more worthy of the chaos of the sea.  
  
The Elder Brother assured him otherwise, as he confessed his crimes, as he confessed every thought he thought might lessen the weight on his shoulders, the weight on his now cursed leg. He had cried. Oh how he cried. Begging for mercy. He had cried out before his confessions, before he had awaken from his ‘rebirth’ as the Elder Brother called it. He had cried out the sweetest name to ever fall off his tongue.  
  
He wondered where she was. The only thing he clung to of his past now, other than the lame leg. Her vibrant locks held sunsets and her eyes were the sea on the clearest day. He opened his eyes and imagined that she would join him on this sacred ground, where the war had not touched and peace still reign. For now at least. For now.  
  
He lifted a hand up to his good cheek as the sky opened up above him. Somehow not quite sure whether the drop rolling down his cheek was from his eye or from the rain.


	2. Eyes

She smiled up at him, her ocean blue eyes as warm as sunshine. He wondered what he did to deserve this life he now had. He held her closer against his chest, pressing his lips down onto the soft skin of her forehead. He closed his eyes and listened to Sansa sing, a soft song he’d now heard her sing a thousand times. A song that held only happy memories for the both of them, and now the three of them.  
  
He glanced back down at his daughter, she was so small and sweet. With her mother’s eyes and pale skin, but his dark hair. He grinned as her small hand reached up and try to grab a lock of his hair. It was still too far from her reach, unlike her mother’s. He glanced over to Sansa and where she sung by the window, mending something, probably for the little lass in his arms.  
  
She must have felt his eyes on her because she looked up at him and smiled, continuing the song as she did. And yet again grey eyes met blue.


	3. Tunic

Sansa slid into the roughspun tunic that was more like a dress on her, bringing her sleeve, that was far too large on her to her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. He wasn’t coming home tonight, but at least she could curl up in one of his tunics and still be surrounded by his scent. He smelt of leather and sweat, the forest he so often hunted in, another scent she couldn’t place a word to.  
  
The tunic fell to her knees and made her feel so small, like he often did himself. She felt as though she could fit two - no - three of her in it, perhaps it would still be loose even then. She crawled into their bed and burrowed beneath their furs. Oh, the bed itself smelt like him plenty - but she wanted more. She always needed more when he was away.  
  
She had not his chest for a pillow, she had not his arm for a blanket. She had not his breath to cause her hair to stir, or a random soft snore that would cause giggles to spring from her lips. She had not his warmth or whispers, she had an empty bed tonight. But the tunic made him feel closer, and that would be how she slept tonight.


	4. Pregnant

The day she had told him, he had felt nothing but fear. Worries had danced around in his head. Women died, babes died, and sometimes both did. He was more careful with her, though he could tell it made her sour. He was far more gentler with her than he needed, and she hated it. He made her rest far more than she needed to, and she would snap at him for it. But he couldn’t let his little bird suffer any more losses, whether it be her own death, or the loss of whatever life rested in her womb.  
  
He worried about other things as well. He had the blood of Gregor, afterall. Could one of his own children turn out the same? He prayed - ah yes - he had actually prayed, that her sweetness would be enough to sway that wicked blood away and keep it at bay. He hoped for daughters as sweet as her, but with the bite her sister had. So that no man might hurt them. He prayed for sons with her wits and his strength so that they might escape death until their natural time.  
  
When he had finally humored her with all his fears and wishes she had cradled his face with both hands and smiled sweetly at him. She had brought his hands to her pregnant stomach to feel the strong kicks his child possessed.  _They’ll have your strength._ She had whispered.  _I hope they have your heart as well._


	5. Humor

His humor was far too crass and sarcastic for her to laugh at in public. She was a lady, she had her role to play, her part to fill. But the second that he said something to her when it was just the two of them, she would burst out in girlish giggles and watched his smile grow.  
  
She surprised him when she started to pick up things from the other men she knew, when they thought she wasn’t listening, and found he laughed much harder when the dirty jokes came from her tongue. He snorted when she cursed in their bedchambers, and groaned loudly when she spoke to him like a harlot in their bed.  
  
She would still stare him down at dinner if he was loud enough that other ladies would or could hear, but he only grinned in response before lowering his voice. She would probably hear the same tale when it was just the two of them.


	6. Distance

There was a distance between them that only the gods knew the measurement of. Only the gods knew the location of the other, and only other than themselves did these same gods know of the love that was held in their hearts.

Not another living being new what they felt for one another, and late at night when neither of them could sleep without fears for the worst, their thoughts would dance around each other. They knew not that they shared the same hopes and dreams. They knew not that the thing they feared for one, the other feared for them.

Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if she’d worry less if she knew exactly where he was. She did not know that Sandor often wondered the same. The distance between them was something only the gods knew, and so they both found themselves praying to them. They told the gods of their hopes, their pain, their fears, their dreams and every thought that revolved around one another.

And one day their prayers were answered and the distance between them turned into nothingness. 


	7. Sleep

Sansa couldn’t help the giggle that slip from her mouth as Sandor held her close to him. He was possessive of her even in his sleep. He looked his age when the weight of the world was no longer upon him, and the lightness of dreams swayed his heart. She watched him, she often did. The lull of his breathing was usually the lullaby she herself fell asleep to.  
  
He was so peaceful like this, his warmth permeating through her body and making her feel so comfortable in the dead of winter. Sometimes she’d run her fingers through his hair and listen to his low, senseless mumbles whose tone was nothing else than contentment. Other times she would enjoy the view, of both his shirtless torso and his peacefulness.  
  
And that was what she had done tonight, until the sweet, steady lullaby of his breathing and the warmth of his body draped around hers made her eyelids heavy and brought her to her own peaceful slumber.


	8. Older-Love

Her hair was no longer as vibrant as it once was, and her moonbloods had ceased to come, but she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he kept to their bed and their bed alone. He still brought her small gifts that made her smile, and even when she wasn’t smiling, the lines left by her smiles still graced her face.  
  
His hair held more grey than hers did, he had been older than her by fifteen years. But she still combed her fingers through it when she thought he was asleep. Their youngest child was old enough to squire now - but Sandor wouldn’t press his little bird to push him from the nest anytime soon. She already missed the rest of their little pack and that look on her face when she missed them always made him frown.  
  
He steal snuck kisses from her like she was sixteen instead of fourty, and she still clung to him at night like he was thirty-one and not fifty-five. Age was nothing between them except ever expanding love. He wondered how many more years he had left with her, but quickly shook the thought from his mind.  
  
It didn’t matter, it would always still worth it - everything they had faced together, and they would always remain young at heart.


	9. Sister

“I want to name her Elinor.” Sandor’s head jerked up from where it rested against her swollen stomach. Grey eyes staring up at her and into her blue ones. An ocean of pain was hiding behind those eyes, swirling in the grey pigment, like a maelstrom. A smile though, twitches on his lips, just barely there, but present enough that she knows it’s the right thing to do.

“Are you sure?” She’s lost people too, their little girl could be given a whole slew of names from either side of her family. One of her aunts, her mother, the sister she’s trying so hard to repair her relationship with… but she wants to name the little lassie Elinor. After _his_ sister.

“Yes. Elinor Lyarra Clegane.” She whispered softly to him, her fingers running through his hair and easing him down so his scarred cheek rested against her stomach again.

“Lyarra… Your grandmother.” He recalled from memory, he’d seen a picture or two that Sansa had somehow managed to scavenge.

“Yes… I’ve dreamt about her you know…” She continued stroking his long locks, and he closed his eyes as it soothed him. “The baby, I mean. Red hair, but the rest is all Clegane and Stark.” She teased softly. “I think she looks a lot like a Lyarra.” Sandor didn’t tease her for her dreams, he couldn’t, not when he was living his own right now. He turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to her sweet skin.

“She’ll be the most beautiful girl in the world, second only to her mother.” He murmured softly, smiling against her skin as she giggled. His breath had tickled her, she had always been ticklish on her stomach.

“You are the sweetest man in the world, Sandor.” Sansa stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. Not treating the scarred one any differently from his un-maimed one, something that never failed to fill his heart with warmth.

“No lass, I’m just the luckiest.” He pushed himself up, arms on either side of her and leaned forward for a kiss. She met him halfway, and her soft lips met his chapped ones eagerly.


End file.
